


Nine Lives

by witch_brew



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Animal Death, Death, Dismemberment, Gen, Gore, Guro, Kidnapping, Knives, Murder, Other, Reader-Insert, Reincarnation, Torture, dont read if you're squeamish, i cant think of tags im bad at this lmao, improper use of powertools, its weird, noncon, reader - Freeform, there's reincarnation, trigger warning, tw, well technically youre the animal but, you - Freeform, you become human tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 04:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8564110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witch_brew/pseuds/witch_brew
Summary: All you've ever wanted was to belong to him. And that's all you ever will want.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is weird as fuck, let me be the first to tell you. The reader DOES start out as a cat, but towards the middle to end things take a turn for the human. I got the idea at random but. It makes sense? Sort of? No one ever said all nine lives had to be spent as the same animal.

You start your life as an animal. A cat, to be specific. Your owners in your first life are very loving. You are happy. 

Sometimes you get out of the house and roam the neighborhood. 

You meet him for the first time on one of those days. 

You've just been run down by a truck. An accident. Your owners will miss you dearly. 

As you are breathing your last breaths, staring blankly ahead, eyes still seeing, you see him for the first time. 

This time he's small. A boy. A child. 

He's staring at you, crouched down. He pokes a finger into your wounds, scooping up some of the sticky blood clumped within your fur. He stares at you. 

(He looks so interested. So pleased. Something isn't right with this boy.)

You mew softly at him, one of the last sounds you will make in this life. He pets your head. You manage a small purr with what's left of your final breath. You try to nuzzle the hand and fail.

(Something isn't right with you.)

His eyes are made of gold.

(Yours are glassy and distant, your heart finally coming to a stop.)

–

The next time you are the same. You want nothing more than to meet him again, from the moment you are born. 

The person who you are born to does not want you. They do not want your siblings.

Together, in a garbage bag, you and the rest of your litter are cast into a river. 

You do not get to meet him this time. 

(You should be afraid now.)

The other kittens are panicked and scared, pitiful mews and squirming bodies. Water seeps in. 

You close your eyes and wait. 

(You must be broken.)

Maybe next time.

–

You're luckier next time. 

(No. This isn't luck. What's wrong with you? You're sick. You're wrong.)

(So is he.)

You're a wandering stray. He finds you in an alleyway.

He's a bit older, his face showing the early signs of adulthood. 

He takes you home and cuts you apart in a backyard shed, speaking soothingly. You think he finds it interesting how, no matter how much he hurts you, you preen at any show of affection. He knows you aren't normal. 

He's probably done this before.

(He has. You aren't special. Not really.)

There's no rhyme or reason to his torture. No scientific interest or morbid curiosity. No. He just enjoys watching your pain. Hearing your pathetic meows. Feeling you claw and fight.

(You can't help that. It's instinct.)

You should hate him. You should. 

But you already realize something's wrong in your brain at this point. 

It's something about how happy he looks. How sweet his voice his. How warm his eyes are, even when they gleam like a predators. Like yours. 

You don't know what love is, but you fall into it anyway. 

You fall in love with him as he takes your small heart in his hands and tears it from your broken rib cage. 

–

You're born in the woods next time. You grow up wild, a feral gleam in your eyes. 

You're territorial, a real cat this time. 

(You still think of him. You can't help it. Something went wrong with you.)

You're killed by a bigger, meaner, stronger animal. 

(You wish it was him. You'd give all your lives to him.)

In the end, there is nothing left of you but bone, as nature claims the rest for itself. 

–

Next time is sad. 

You're a kitten. Then you are a cat. You have a home. You have love. 

You get sick. 

The child of your family asks why you won't eat. You don't know. You don't want this.

(You don't want to die anymore.)

Her parents hold her close. They talk about heaven and nice things. Things you will never get to see. 

(They know nothing.)

It's not fair. You were happy here. 

After your death, a peaceful one, a release from the pain of illness, they bury you beneath a tree in their yard. 

You think this life was your least favorite, just because of how it had to end.

–

You're taken into a strange place two years into your next life. 

You were searching for him. You tried to fight it but you can't stop yourself. You want to be his. You want to belong to him. If you have to die, which you know you will, you want it to be him.

You always want it to be him. 

You spend two weeks in a cage, pacing around, a low warning growl near constantly coming from deep within your chest.

When they take you, slip some drug deep into your system, you know you won't see him this time.

(You hate this. Why is it like this. Why does it always end like this.)

You wish then, as you drift, a worker petting your head, that you could be something else. Anything else. 

Something he might want to keep.

–

You get your wish. 

You don't remember before. 

You don't remember him. 

You have a normal, if slightly rough, childhood. You go to school. You don't think about him. You don't know who he is.

(Sometimes, though, your dreams are haunted by strange, golden eyes.)

Adulthood approaches. You find yourself comfortable, happy. You choose a college, pack your things, kiss your parents goodbye.

When you see him in a bar you are two years too young to be in, you're immediately drawn in by the way he smiles. The perfect gold of his eyes. 

He takes you home with him. Eats dinner with you. 

When you catch him staring at the way you eat, you're slightly uncomfortable. You consider going home, to your comfortable dorm. You don't know if you trust this man. You don't know if you're ready for what comes next. 

(You aren't, not really. But you are. You have died again and again to get here.)

He notices your discomfort. He smiles, charming and swift. The slight German accent his voice carries soothes you. 

“Don't worry, liebling.” He says, and you wonder what that word means. You like it. “I'm not a serial killer, I promise.”

(He's not. Not yet.)

He takes you on the table. It's rough and dirty and you love it. 

As he's thrusting into you, grunting and panting, face flushes, eyes fever bright, you lose yourself. This moment is one you want to keep. It's hot and sweaty and probably sinful. His slick skin presses against you, heavy and warm, and you moan and cry his name. 

Strade. That's the name he gave you, earlier, when he caught you staring across the bar and bought you a drink. 

You drag your nails down his back. You come undone beneath him, head thrown back against the wood of the table. 

Right before he empties himself into you, you find a knife slicing across your abdomen. Carving a deep smile into you, just below the belly button.

You're shocked, too shocked to scream. You try to hold your wound, but it's far too much. He pulls out when he's done, stepping back to admire his work. 

“Y-you said-” You whisper. 

He smiles.

“I didn't lie, liebling.” He says, watching you. 

You sit up. Stand. Take a few shaky steps towards him before your insides slip through the deep slit in your gut, falling to the ground with a sick splat. 

(You are his first human kill. Your soul takes pride in that.)

You stare at him, horrified, and he laughs. That laugh is the last thing you hear before you slip into unconsciousness, falling onto the floor the same way your intestines did moments before.

You don't wake up again.

(You failed. He didn't keep you.)

–

The next time you're a runaway. You make mistakes. You hurt yourself. You hurt others.

It's all part of the game. 

He finds you this time. Snatches you off the street like the trash you are. 

He keeps you in his basement for two days before you die. 

The first day is the hardest. You have too much fight this time. 

(He won't keep you if you do this. Don't do this.)

You kick him in the chin when he crouches to be level with where you sit, tied to a post. 

He grins. It's not a kind grin. 

“There's a lot of spunk in you, buddy. I like that.” 

He grips your ankle, a dark look in his eyes. 

(You still find his eyes enchanting, even in this life.)

“But you have to learn a lesson.” 

He uses a saw to do it. Your screams echo through the basement as he slices though flesh, sinew, muscle, and bone. By the time he presses the blade to your other leg, just below the knee, the fight has left you. You're a weak child again, sobbing pathetically in a puddle of your own blood and filth. 

When he's done, he burns the wounds closed. You scream yourself into unconsciousness before he's finished the first one. 

The next day you're quiet. He offers you food and you accept, parting your chapped lips to eat the slightly stale protein bar he offers. You struggle to swallow and he lets you have a sip of dirty water. 

You think it's odd, how kind he is. 

How can such a friendly person do such disgusting things. 

Your heart beats a little faster when he trails his fingers along your collarbone, his cheeks flushed. You're disgusted with yourself. 

You snap at his hand. 

He pauses, tilting his head. 

“Oh, buddy, you didn't learn anything yesterday did you?” He asks. 

You begin to shake.

(Why can't you get this right?)

He walks away from you, returning with a shiny, brand new pair of pliers. 

You try to squirm away. You try to beg him not to. 

He shoves the pliers into your mouth, his other hand squeezing your jaw, forcing you to open up for him. 

He rips your teeth out one by one as you scream and gag on your own blood. By the time he's finished, his face is flushed red, eyes heavy lidded as he stares at you. Blood seeps down your chin and into your throat. Your lungs. You think you're drowning.

Everything's gone fuzzy and wrong. 

You barely notice him unzipping his fly. You barely notice him picking up one of his power tools. A nail gun. He shoves his cock into your mouth. He presses the gun against the side of your head.

As he cums down your throat, he fires twice directly into your skull.

(Failure.)

–

This time is different. Something is different. 

You're lonely but not entirely. You have friends, though they're distant now. 

You meet him in a friendly little bar. He insists on buying you a drink, and you accept shyly. 

He gives you his name again, and you in turn give him yours. You drink your beer quickly, caught up in chit chat. 

He follows you out when you leave. 

You really never stood a chance.

(But that's okay, isn't it?)

When you wake up in his basement, you're afraid, but you try to reason with him anyway. It doesn't work. 

Strade smiles sweetly as he orders you to remove your clothes. The knife in his hand is less threat and more promise, but it is an ever present reminder of who is in charge here.

(You weren't meant to be in control.)

After you're stripped nearly bare, he reties your wrists and examines you with his eyes. Thoroughly. 

They trace over every inch of you, mapping out your body. You tremble, tears prickling the corners of your eyes, and plead with him. Bargain with him. 

Offer yourself up, say you'll do anything he wants.

You'll play this last game, you'll do anything to get out of this alive.

(You won't get another chance at this.)

He decides to play with you a little. It starts slow. 

It still hurts like hell when he carefully draws the blade of his knife down the center of your chest, a straight line, but you find yourself grateful even as you whine, tears spilling over. 

Of course, gentle doesn't last with Strade.

(You'd know that, if you could remember.)

His cuts steadily get deeper and deeper. You steadily get louder and louder, until you're screaming for him. 

He finally sets the knife aside, smiling at you.

“Good job, Kätzchen .” He praises, running a hand through your hair. 

You can't help yourself. You lean into the touch. He chuckles a bit before removing his hand. 

“Think you can handle a bit more~?” 

You try not to sob outright, biting your lip. You have to make him happy.

“Y-yes, Strade.” You whimper. 

It's a blatant lie, but he looks pleased nonetheless. He walks over to the area most of his tools are stored. When he turns to face you holding a pair of pliers, your blood runs cold. You aren't sure why.

(You can't remember. But that's okay. As long as he keeps you, it doesn't matter if you remember.)

Instinctively, your jaw clenches tight.

Strade smiles soothingly at you before he moves behind you.

“Don't be frightened, buddy. It's gonna hurt, a lot, but you'll live.” 

You let out a frightened whine. 

You feel the pliers close on one of your fingernails, and you tense, toes curling in anticipation of the pain. 

You aren't prepared. You expect it to be quick. 

Strade is taking his time, slowly tearing your nail from the bed, peeling it back to see the bloody mess beneath.

You scream. 

He doesn't take them all. Two from each hand. When he's done, he shows them to you. Covered in blood and chunks of your skin. He seems pleased with himself. He seems heated. 

“Such a good Katze.” He praises, voice rough. “But I think I'm getting a little carried away. Wouldn't want to end this too quickly, now would we? Let's clean you up.”

He haphazardly tends to your wounds, licking his lips every time you yelp or whimper in pain. 

When he's finished, he pets you one more time, and then he leaves you, flicking the lights off when he reaches the top of the basement stairs. 

You cry for a while, but you eventually fall into an exhausted sleep.

You wake to him standing over you. 

You jolt a bit, letting out a startled squeak. He looks amused.

“Good morning, liebling.” He says, ruffling your hair. He has something in his hand. 

“I want to try something with you, but you have to hold very still. Can you do that for me, buddy?”

You swallow. 

“Y-yes.” You whisper. 

He beams.

(This is your last chance. Your last life. You have to do it right this time.)

He kneels in front of you, showing you his knife. 

“No moving. If you move, I'll have to punish you for it.” 

You take a deep breath. 

“Okay.” You say, voice faint from fear.

He presses the blade into your skin, just beneath you collarbone, and draws it down slowly, curving it as he goes. You inhale through your nose and exhale a whine, body tensing to keep still. He's cutting deep, fully intent on leaving permanent scars. 

(You. Have. To. Live. This. Time.)

He removes the blade for a moment, smirking at you. His eyes are already darkening with clear lust. His cheeks tinting pink. 

He begins the second cut, two lines, one horizontal, one straight down. You bite your lip until it bleeds, forcing yourself to hold still. You feel like more is at stake now than you know.

(You are right.)

He takes his time, and you sob and cry out but you never move. You're deathly still as Strade writes his name in your flesh. 

It will never go away. 

(Deep inside, you don't want it to.)

Finally, he finishes. He doesn't say a word, his breath coming in short pants. He quickly cuts you loose from the post, forcing you down onto the cold basement floor. 

You stare up at him, breathing fast. Is this it? Is he going to kill you now?

“Such a good Katze, I think you deserve a reward, yeah?” He breaths. 

He tugs your underwear down your hips. You let out a broken sob.

He touches you. 

That's... unexpected. You didn't think he had that kind of self control.

(He doesn't have much. This won't last.)

You can't help it. It feels good. You moan, soft, almost a mewl.

Strade growls.

(There it goes.)

He shoves two fingers inside of you, fucking you with them just enough to stretch you a bit, and then he lines his cock up with your entrance and pushes in. 

It hurts. But not as much as it would have without the brief preparation. 

There's some pleasure there too.

Your arms wrap around him of their own accord, wrecked fingers scrabbling for purchase on his back. Remaining nails digging in. 

He growls into your ear, hot breath warming your neck as he hunches over you, filling you, destroying you.

(Claiming you.)

You let out whines and gasps, moans from pain and pleasure spilling from your raw throat. 

He bites you, right between your shoulder and your neck. It breaks the skin and you scream and you aren't sure if it's a good scream or a bad one. You don't know your own body anymore. 

There are so many sensations. 

You come undone, tears streaking your cheeks as you clench around him. This only spurs him on. He's rough, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he slams into you, again and again, thrusts varying in depth and speed. But always hard. He's never gentle. 

He holds your hips tight against his as he cums, teeth digging in harder where they're clamped on your neck. 

He lies on top of you for a while, breathing heavily, before he removes himself from within and on top of you. 

He pulls you up. You're limp, still panting from the exertion. 

He reties your wrists and pets your hair. 

“Get some rest, buddy.” 

He leaves you.

(You have to live. You have to live. Please live.)

(You don't want to die. Not for good.)

You sleep for a while, worn out from the day's... activities. 

When you wake it's still dark in the basement. You lie in silence for a while. You only cry a little.

Eventually, the light flicks on. Strade stomps down the stares.

He looks even happier than before. 

“Hey buddy! Still holding in there?”

You lick your lips, staring up at him. You nod. 

“Good! I have a surprise for you, Katze.” 

He holds up something metal. A collar. Your eyes widen.

“That's right, liebling. I'm going to keep you. Forever.”

You tremble. Is this what you wanted? Would you rather die? 

(You wanted this. You've wanted this for a long time.)

Strade kneels, carefully placing the collar around your neck. It's heavy. Uncomfortable.

(You love it. You love it so much. You just don't know you do.)

“It's electric, by the way. Wouldn't try to run off if I were you.” He says, like he's commenting on the weather, as he unties your wrists for the final time.

He helps you up. 

“Come on then, schatzi. Let's get you cleaned up. Then we can play some more.”

Strade leads you up the stares. 

You belong to him now. 

You'll never leave again.

(You won.)

(Aren't you happy?)

(You finally got what you wanted.)

(You. Won.)

(You are finally where you belong.)


End file.
